


you let me complicate you

by r1ker



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-27
Updated: 2015-04-27
Packaged: 2018-03-25 23:26:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,673
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3828811
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/r1ker/pseuds/r1ker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>third time is most definitely the charm.</p>
            </blockquote>





	you let me complicate you

**Author's Note:**

> here i go again

It’s just Wesley and he out on the balcony at Wilson’s studio. The night above and around them is pitch black and cold, their watches and the traffic downtown indicating late hours. They’ve pulled up some kitchen chairs from inside and they both sit side by side on the concrete, Wesley’s bare feet up on the railing and one of Wilson’s legs crossed over the other. A pair of loafers sit atop one another beneath Wesley’s chair, a rare display of casualty the two of them more often than not seem to have around one another in this time of their relationship.

 

Wesley’s laptop is angled on his lap and from time to time he pecks at a few of its keys, mindlessly reading the figures on the screen. The once-impeccable button up and suit jacket he had on during the day have been long forgotten, draped over the back of his chair as they first moved out onto the patio for fresh air. The V-neck t-shirt beneath is thin and well worn, the smell of his cologne and skin catching a ride on the occasional breeze to flood Wilson’s nose. His hair’s lost its coif and hangs down in his line of vision. Wilson watches him flick a few of the strands back onto his forehead occasionally.

 

He wants to reach out and do it for him, his admiration for his right hand man having grown in great numbers over the last few months, but he refrains. Such a infinitesimally wonderful person should not be tainted by such ruthless evil, he reckons to himself, hand swirling the glass of scotch sweating onto his palm.

 

“Sir, I was asked earlier what you plan to do to neutralize the Russian threat forming in one of your tenements in the northern half of the kitchen,” Wesley asks him without looking up from his screen. He looks to be typing a lengthy email, fingers working rapidly to any one of their countless contacts.

 

“Focus our attentions there rather than chasing that menace with the mask,” Wilson provides bluntly. That seems to be his answer to everything. He has to work so hard to tamp down other situations that he doesn’t have time to take care of that goddamn masked man. His job wasn’t so complicated before that guy’s arrival, he reiterates to his feuding mind once again. There weren’t so many things to take care of once, and they both got to bed before two in the morning during that time.  “Up the weapons figures in Excel to reflect that. Give them more resources than the ones in our neck of the woods.”

 

“Yes, sir,” Wesley acknowledges, fingers seemingly keying in that command word for word. Wesley was by far the most attentive aide Wilson ever had the privilege to employ. There wasn’t much that escaped his view. He was nitpicky to the point where Wilson didn’t have to put emphasis on anything; Wesley had already gotten to it and had it taken care of. It helped to make his job a little easier, Wilson decided a few years down the road, when they had already spent enough time together and talked and fucked and discussed to the point where their relationship, the long-term nature of it, was well-established.

 

Wesley shuts down and closes the laptop after a little while. He reclines the seat as best as he can without falling and sighs heavily, runs a hand over his face. Wilson remembers him stumbling into work at four that morning, only having left his company five hours before, worn out and clothes barely assembled in his usually impeccable way.

 

“Wesley,” Wilson says gently when he sees him starting to drift off in his seat. “Give me numbers.” Wesley turns to face him at the last statement, a little confused but nonetheless ready to perform the action once given further elaboration.

 

“What numbers do you want, sir?” Wesley mumbles sleepily, sitting up a little in his chair as he works to potentially solve yet another problem of his employer.

 

“Tell me everything you can about my current affairs without opening that computer,” he explains and Wesley’s brows furrow in the center. His brain, slow in its ability to work through the fog his impending exhaustion is forming, tries to bring forth what it’s retained over the last few years of its boss’s accounts.

 

Wilson stands to face his assistant and he kneels down at the arm of the chair. One of Wesley’s sleeves has been rolled up and the way Wilson inches closer causes the hair on Wesley’s arm to rise and form bumps in response.

 

“How much do I have in my bank account?” Wilson asks, hands cradling Wesley’s jaw and moving the collar of his shirt aside to gain access to the warm, tan curve of his neck.

 

Wesley draws in a breath as Wilson’s mouth begins to rest on his skin. “$13,496,992.87.”

 

“What is the current number of employees I have under my control as of seven business days ago?” Wilson drags his tongue over the bumps of potential facial hair on the higher point of Wesley’s neck. The throat within it releases a small, raspy breath.

 

“Thirty-seven on the first tier, seven on the second tier, and three on the third tier,” Wesley responds, attention he’s receiving making it hard to form words. He holds onto Wilson’s head as it rests on his shoulder. Wilson’s hands are grasping the armrest of the chair that holds the two of them.

 

“How many buildings do I own and operate?”

 

“Sixty-seven in Hell’s Kitchen and five in Brooklyn,” Wesley groans as straight teeth sink into the thin skin at his neck. The pressure Wilson’s bite brings down on his throat isn’t enough to draw blood but is enough to leave indentations and a bruising hickey.

 

He drags his teeth over Wesley’s Adam’s apple as he draws back to give attention to another area. Wesley is breathing hard, knees drawing up and sending his laptop clattering onto the rug under his chair. He tries to look down to see if it landed safely but Wilson jerks him back to where he needs to be, right beneath him and being given the affection he so rightfully deserves in Wilson’s eyes.

 

“What is the average salary for someone in my employment?”

 

“$57,210 for first tier, $77,988 for second tier, and $101,348 for…” Wesley trails off in a breathy moan as Wilson moves to capture his mouth. He kisses Wilson deeply, accepting a tongue sliding along his own to even further taste him, for a few seconds and pulls back to finish his thought. “$101,348 for someone in the first tier.”

 

Wilson doesn’t want to grant him release his pulsing cock wants him to. He wants to drive Wesley to self-completion, to draw pleasure through the kisses Wilson buries and digs into his skin and his muscle.

 

“One final thing,” Wilson begins, mouth moving to rest along the shell of Wesley’s ear. “One final thing and I’ll let you get on with whatever you had planned for the rest of the night.” Seeing Wesley’s trembling figure works feverishly to fuel the spark blossoming in Wilson’s gut.

 

“What? Goddammit, what?” Wesley gasps desperately, eyes glassy from where his glasses reveal them after having been knocked off earlier. Wilson can tell he’s close. The flush rising on Wesley’s cheeks are only something Wilson’s seen on people in dire need of some sort of release, sexual or emotional or otherwise. It’s a flattering shade and Wilson takes some sort of selfish pride from it, knowing that he was the one to bring this to this man’s face and body.

 

“How long have you been mine?” Wilson almost growls, shocked at just how feral this man makes him when their relationship is brought up. Wilson is possessive, no doubt, eager to make someone who is close to him safe and appreciated. Wesley is no exception, undoubtedly Wilson’s greatest confidant and admirer.

 

Wesley cries out, inner V of his pants instantly soaked as he comes, as he confesses just how long Wilson has had him under his spell. “Seven years. My God, it’s been seven years…” Wilson doesn’t know just how the confession to a higher power fits into his answer to the question but he relishes in it anyway, sees it as an added bonus to getting Wesley play the game the two of them enjoy so much.

 

Wilson holds him close with one hand on his neck. He can feel the tremors Wesley’s orgasm send coursing through his synapses and translating onto the surface. Later that night Wilson will remember the throaty whimpers Wesley had to give him as a result.

 

“Oh, Jesus Christ, fuck me,” Wesley heaves, gripping the skin at the back of Wilson’s neck. Wilson’s never heard him vulgar other than the times the two of them fuck. It’s like the carnal nature of their bodies and souls’ colliding eventually brings something out in Wesley and it makes Wilson mad with pleasures.

 

Wilson’s busy tending to another a selfish need, his aching cock. A few haphazard pumps from the awkward angle of his hand as he shoves it in his suit trousers sends him toppling over the edge just like Wesley did before. Wesley’s watching him out the corner of his eye and makes an almost satisfied noise when Wilson groans after coming.

 

The two of them sit together like they did before, this time Wilson kneeling by Wesley’s chair, forehead resting on Wesley’s shoulder. Wilson releases one final, shaky breath and stands, offering Wesley a hand like he always does after they end up this way together. Wesley accepts it, again, just like he always does, for he always seems to want the same as Wilson, and the two leave the laptop and chairs abandoned on the patio, retiring to the master bedroom and en suite, thoughts of its beckoning bed and shower, numbers and satisfaction, buzzing around in their sprawling minds.

 

 

 

 


End file.
